Road To Dream
by Tamashi.no.Koe
Summary: Misaki Taro is the world's best friend. He's a great listener, assists and supports everyone, yeah. But what happens when the lesser half of the Golden Duo decides he has his own dreams? What happens when he decides he wants to win...without Tsubasa?
1. Exile

**ROAD TO DREAM**

* * *

_Chapter One - Exile_

* * *

"**You're taking a huge risk."**

"**I expect huge rewards."**

"**I'm sure you're aware what hopes rest on the people whose shoulders you are about to overburden. Are you quite certain you know what you're doing? None of these 'test subjects' are dispensable, you know."**

"**Precisely. So neither is my plan."**

* * *

Matsuyama Hikari knew that he sounded (and probably looked) like an insecure five-year-old with a bad case of paranoia high on sugar. "Are you sure you have to do this, Misaki-kun?"

"Yes, I'm sure." With even-toned resignation in his voice, Matsuyama's long-time friend Misaki Taro continued to pack his traveling bag with learned efficiency, moving quietly around his dormitory bedroom—no, his former dormitory bedroom—emptying drawers and clearing tabletops. His unhurried footfalls wove a tangled web all over the deep red carpet with their path, connecting the plain, made-up bed and its bedside table by the single window, the closet up against the opposite wall and the shorter adjacent cabinet.

"But is it really all right to go, at this _time_?" Matsuyama pressed, observing Taro with a mixed sense of helplessness and incredulity. How could he stay so composed and cool-headed when the fragments of their shared, shattered world were being juggled by a diabolical clown who kept dropping more pieces by the hour?

"Well...we don't exactly have a choice, Matsuyama-kun."

Matsuyama made an angry noise. It was evident from his restless pacing that he did not buy into his friend's supposed belief. "To hell with that!" he burst out, whirling around on his heels to face the placid brunette, who had jumped at his sudden yell. The pent up resentment that had been building up all evening lashed out at last. "If you'd argued, they might have changed their minds and let you stay! _Why didn't you argue?_"

To his chagrin, Taro merely paused long enough to smile complacently. "We lost, Matsuyama-kun. Fairly. What's there to argue about?" Then his work resumed, his back turned. It was clear that he had already given up, on his own accord. And he was doing it without throwing a tantrum or smashing in walls, or any show of protest, for that matter. He was letting go without a fight.

Unfortunately, not everyone had the luxury of being hopelessly subservient. "So we lost," Matsuyama conceded reluctantly. "We lost fairly, by the rules. But the rules weren't fair." Surely even Taro could see that? Surely it was obvious to anyone that their new coach Gamo had no solid basis in dismissing any of the seven players who had been discarded from the Team that day?

But his reasoning was met only by soft, helpless chuckling. "A player's responsibilities during a game do not involve challenging the referee," said Taro, quoting Tsubasa. "We only have to try our best. And we did. It just wasn't enough." The traveling bag was zipped up with a low 'brrrr'.

_Now he's rationalizing Gamo's mistakes_, Matsuyama thought wryly_. He's arguing for his own condemnation_. "Maybe not," he allowed. "But when the referee's being completely illogical… Would you just stand by and say nothing if someone was awarded a red card for scoring a goal?" The nervous energy he'd hoarded ran out. His footsteps halted, and he settled for leaning against the doorframe.

"No," Taro answered with a rare hint of firmness. "But I'd only interfere if no one else did. You saw what happened downstairs. I'd say a people are being very frank about what they think of this situation already. My opinion would only be repetitive of theirs."

It was Matsuyama's turn to laugh. It was a harsh laugh, bitter with rage-triggered blame. But it was a laugh, and it flew naturally from his throat because he thought he had understood something, finally. "And because of that, you think that expressing how _you_ feel isn't important? Or is how you feel not important, period? Misaki-kun—Taro—you're allowed to get mad sometimes, you know? After what happened today, you're perfectly entitled to—"

"I'm fine, Matsuyama-kun," Taro said soothingly. Too soothingly. With too gentle a smile. "I mean it."

This time, Matsuyama didn't challenge the point, only shook his head. This was pure Taro talking. Taro wasn't like Hyuuga Kojiroh. Taro didn't always feel the need to parade his emotions to the world. Taro knew how to pretend; Taro knew how to hide. The boy could be filled with murderous intent and even someone as close to him as Tsubasa wouldn't be any the wiser.

"Does all this really bother _you_?" Now he was resuming his standard role. Standard worried face. Standard concerned voice. Standard 'good listener'.

Standard Misaki Taro.

Matsuyama could have gone along. He could have said, no, it didn't bother him that much. He could have said, don't worry, the Team will be fine, despite the fact that the preliminaries to the World Junior Cup were coming up, and they would be playing without seven of their best players. He could have played the game; it wouldn't even have been that hard.

Instead, he unclenched one fist and held out an object, crumpled from his tight grasp, because as much as he wanted to reassure his friend and be reassured in turn, Matsuyama decided it was more important for Taro to learn that pretending didn't make fairy tales real. "Hyuuga gave this to me before he took off."

It was a captain's armband. _The_ captain's armband. The two of them stared down at it for a long moment before Matsuyama's face split in a rueful grin. From now until Tsubasa returned from Brazil, he would be the guy frantically trying to hold the rest of the team together through crisis, and his first act as leader was to pick a fight with an ex-team member who was incidentally his best friend. A _wonderful_ kick-off to his temporary reign. "What am I going to _do_?"

Unaware of the underlying turmoil behind that particular utterance, Taro simply smiled sympathetically. "You'll be all right." The compliment sounded genuine enough. "You've been captain before."

"But not of soccer superstars—most of which could take me down in a one-on-one tackle," Matsuyama groaned, indulging in a moment of self-pity. So engrossed was he in his predicament that he didn't notice Taro had shouldered his bag and retrieved his soccer ball until said young man had placed a comforting hand on the shoulder of the new Japanese Junior Soccer Team captain.

"You'll manage," said Taro. With a final pat on the back, he circled around Matsuyama, padding down the dim corridor outside his abandoned room towards the solitary lift. "See you in a month," he added with a wave.

Matsuyama watched him go with a searing sense of panic. Taro was going to leave, he realized. Misaki Taro was going to leave the Junior Team. For real. "It'll be fine in a month," he finally broke down and called out. "You'll join us again, for sure."

Whether his friend took these empty promises for what they were, or believed them faithfully to be certain truth, he didn't find out, because it was then that the lift doors closed, and Taro disappeared from view. Matsuyama was left with the unbearable silence of a deserted hallway, which he tried to escape from by returning to his own dorm room and watching as looming darkness swallowed a departing brunette.

Breathing out a sigh, he collapsed onto his bed. There was nothing he, or anyone from the Team for that matter, could do for Taro now, whatever difficulties he faced in the following month. That worried him, because soccer wasn't a sport that could be effectively refined alone.

Taro being the ridiculously social person he was, Matsuyama didn't doubt that the guy had soccer playing friends outside the Team. But for a player of his caliber to elevate his skills significantly within a month? That didn't require just any soccer playing friend as a practice-mate.

Flipping onto his back, he absently went through the people Taro could possibly turn to, in a situation like this. Who, among his former acquaintances? Who, among his former coaches? Who…?

The solution dawned upon him, making his whole body jerked violently and knocking his pillow to the floor. He choked in disbelief, as he knew, with electrifying trepidation, who.

"Oh—oh, God."

* * *

The moment Taro stepped outside the gates, it hit him like a Tiger Shot with a rock-filled soccer ball.

He was off the Team.

He, Misaki Taro, had been kicked off the Junior Team.

It couldn't be true. It _couldn't_ be true. It simply wasn't possible because Taro being removed was like Tsubasa being removed, and that just couldn't happen. He was a regular player of the Japanese Team, wasn't he? He was important to them. They had actively sought his participation during the Youth Cup, sending a special agent to contact him in France, hadn't they? They couldn't be thinking to replace him now. It couldn't happen. Couldn't.

But it was happening.

As he reached the main road from which the Team training ground and dorms were out of sight, the gravity of that day's happenings threatened to drag him through the crumbling sidewalk into certain suffocation from hard, unforgiving earth. It was real, he finally admitted, his eyes closing in defeat. The rejection was real. He had finally fallen from his imaginary pedestal to find that he was not, in fact, indispensable.

_There has to be some mistake, _he thought desperately_. Out of everyone, I can't possibly be the worst…_ But as soon as the idea occurred to him, he slapped it away. No, no, that wasn't right. Being taken off the Team proved that there had to be something terribly wrong with him. How could he still assume that he was better than everybody—than _anybody_? When had he become so arrogant?

Stunned and horrified into a daze, he had walked several blocks before coming to terms with the fact that he was going in a straight line with no actual destination in mind. Taro winced at his inattentiveness. _I'm losing it_, he told himself, as if that knowledge could improve his outlook. _Soccer problems later. Right now, where am I going?_

Taro halted in the middle of a street of closed shops. Several cars whizzed by, but none miraculously stopped and offered him a ride to…where? Where _was_ he going? Did he now know even that? Exasperation in his chest mounted. The phrase _I need to train_ repeated dully in his head, but the words were meaningless and worth as much to him as the wad of gum that had just adhered to his shoe.

Train? Train what? Why? How? _Why?_ He had to earn his back his place on the Team; that much he knew. But where to start? What were his weaknesses? It wasn't like he had a detailed description of what exactly he had been kicked out _for_. All he had to go on was Coach Gamo's parting reprimand:

"_What's wrong with you, Misaki? It's like you forget how to play soccer when Tsubasa's not around."_

What did that even mean? It certainly didn't provide him with a whole lot of information. Had the coach expected him to extract some kind of…hidden message? If so, Taro had found yet another thing he had failed miserably at. One more thing that said Gamo was right—Taro was indeed inferior.

Not that Taro set much store by what coaches told him. Not as much as the others did. He knew he was supposed to trust in his coach's judgment, but he frankly found it hard, never really having gotten used to being _told_ how to play soccer. He'd mostly learned by himself, after all, while following his father around the country. He'd taught himself how to dribble, how to pass, how to dodge and shoot and pretty much everything he knew today.

Tsubasa often marveled at how 'special' Taro's playing style was. Taro had always figured the deviation was simply due to his lack of training in the normal way.

And in his private mind sometimes lurked the idea that he shouldn't be judged the normal way either. Not in the way Coach Gamo was judging him now. Because in all honesty, Taro couldn't see the difference between how he played when Tsubasa was with him, and when he played alone.

The thing was, what he thought didn't matter any more. If the coach threw him out, there was nothing he could do to get back into the Team except by complying with 'the rules of the game' and try to fix the problem he still didn't think was there.

Unfortunately, Taro had never been really good at solving non-existent problems.

Thus he could reasonably conclude that his next move should be to find help. He _needed _to get back on that team. He would never forgive himself for missing out on the Junior World Championship. Which led to the next question: who to ask for this much needed help?

Not a coach. Taro didn't think too much of coaches at that moment. Plus, he didn't know any of those personally. It wasn't like he'd had the luck, as Tsubasa had, to stumble upon someone like Roberto. No, he wanted someone to train _with_, not under.

Taro could list three people who could take on the role of that 'someone'. Three people in the world how could help him out of this mess. That shouldn't have been too devastating; as far as crisis control went, having three people fit for the job didn't make him all that bad off.

The hitch was that two of those people were regrettably unavailable. One of them was still in Brazil, fighting it out on the soccer pitch to become the nation's best player, and wouldn't particularly appreciate being forced to deal with problems at home. He would be sympathetic, of course. But Taro couldn't bring himself to bother this person.

As for the second… Well. The pressures and responsibilities of being the new captain of the Junior Team were quite enough to keep his hands full. Managing a team in which half its members were frankly more skillful and experienced players than himself—at least that person was aware of this—was undoubtedly quite stressful. Again, Taro didn't want to further burden his friend. The guy really didn't need the extra pressure.

That meant, that out of all the people Taro could see himself talking his troubles over with, only one person was left.

"Kami help me."

* * *

"I'm not asking you to be nice."

"It sure sounds like you are."

"Really? Well…I'm not. You're just going to have to take my word for it. All I'm asking here is that you don't indiscriminately grind him to the ground."

"Is that it? Come on, would I do that?"

"Judging by your track record, yes."

"You're being paranoid and overprotective."

"And you're getting riled up just talking about him. Listen to yourself, Suzuki. What does that tell you about what will happen when you two are actually face to face?"

"…All right. I admit I've been harsh sometimes. And don't get me wrong; I'm not proud of it. But if I've been as bad as you say I have, what makes you so sure he'll come running here? Sounds pretty masochistic, if you ask me."

Mikomi raised a brow in skepticism as a long-suffering sigh resonated from the depths of her portable phone. "I know; it _is_ masochistic," the voice replied. "He probably knows it too. But for some strange reason, he trusts you. And he'll only involve someone he absolutely trusts, because this is his dream we're talking about. With Tsubasa in Brazil, you're probably the only one he'd consider going to for help. Heck, you're probably one of the few people who _can_ help, exactly because he listens to you as much as he does."

"As for that, I really don't think—"

"Suzuki, don't argue. We all know your opinion will matter. A _lot_. What you do or say could either give him wings or cripple him."

"And knowing that I tend more to cripple him, you tell me that I have this great influence…why?"

"Because I feel the need to spell it out to you that you're potentially able to jeopardize the prospects of the Junior Team with just one nasty look."

"Oh."

Idly drifting into her room, Mikomi sat down upon her bed with a frown. Why did things always have to get so complicated the moment he was involved? So troublesome. "Well…I can't promise anything. What I'll say when he comes—if he comes—is…I don't know. Sometimes I just can't help it—"

"Then learn to control yourself, for Kami's sake. Rein in your behavior, like you're always telling your friend Kamikaze. Remember, I'm not telling you to drop everything and help him. Just try not to destroy him on sight, all right?"

Mikomi rolled her eyes, fiddling with a corner of her pillow. "I'm not _that_ bad, you know. But, okay, I'll see what I can do." And with a few more pleasantries, she hung up, tossing the phone aside with a small snort of irritability.

_That was pointless_.

She highly doubted that she had needed the warning she'd gotten. He definitely would not come. Seriously, if a person has been stamped into the mud enough times by another, you'd think they'd both know to stay away from each other. If not avoid, then at least ignore. For anyone to go _looking_ for his or her tormentor was… She didn't think anyone could be so hopelessly dumb. Especially not him, being all-knowing in social matters or whatnot.

Yet, now that the possibility of a visit had arisen, she found herself wishing that he _would_ come. Whimsical as it was, she wanted, out of pure curiosity, to see how he would act around her. Was he the kind to hold a grudge for long? She suspected not; her first impression was that he was more of the forgive-and-forget type. In fact, being the over-sensitive, wishy-washy pacifist he was, he would probably pretend nothing had gone wrong between them, smile, and be so friendly she would want to strangle him.

That was probably his idea of anger management or something, knowing him. But then again, she'd never seen him actually angry with anyone else before. Perhaps he would start screaming the moment he laid eyes on her?

Abruptly, Mikomi pounded one fist on the mattress and swiftly got to her feet with an impatient scowl. Enough speculation. She was getting annoyed just thinking about him. Besides, he wouldn't come; he wasn't stupid. Sitting around wondering about someone she hadn't seen or heard from for over two years (and most likely wouldn't see or hear from for another two years) was utterly non-productive. She had better things to do with her time.

* * *

The next day in the Nakazawa household, Sanae entered the kitchen, bidding her mother a cheery good morning as she returned the watering can in her hands to its proper place in the cupboard under the sink. "The bushes need trimming again," she reported, running soiled fingers under a stream of tap water.

The elder Nakazawa woman nodded, sitting at the dining table with a cup of tea. "I'll get your father to do it sometime this week," she promised. Not that the man had any great love for their garden. Perhaps it she should take up the trimming herself. Absently taking a sip, she suddenly put down her drink, looking up in interest. "By the way, wasn't that young Misaki-kun walking by outside just now?"

"Yes," Sanae confirmed, wiping her hands and joining her mother at the table. "He was in a hurry; had to catch a flight to France, from what he managed to say before rushing off." Looking mildly puzzled, she reached for a second teacup. "Though he did also mention something about wanting to contact… No, that can't be right, she's not in France."

"Your soccer friend?" her mother guessed, quite familiar with the girl in question. She had been Sanae's sole girl friend a few years ago, both not being content to stay at home to cook and clean, but ran wild on the streets instead. Even when her daughter mercifully decided to settle down a bit, they had not given up their companionship, maintaining regular correspondence. "But isn't she in…?"

"Yes, that's why I'm wondering."

The two looked at each other, equally perplexed.

* * *

**Author's Note**: This story is, to those who know, a modified version of the original Road To Dream, but still takes place in a storyline most of you won't be familiar with. To accomodate those readers, I'll try to have flashbacks and explanations of the more important scenes from the anime (Captain Tsubasa J), so just take it as an alternate version of whatever anime/manga you guys watch/read. I'll deviate a lot from the CTJ plotline, anyway, so it really won't make too much of a difference. If it gets confusing, just let me know. Happy reading.


	2. Looking For Trouble

_Chapter Two - Looking For Trouble_

* * *

"**Does he know where you are?"**

"**No."**

"…**Okay. I **_**knew**_** I should have made sure he at least had your phone number or something before he left. Well, do **_**you**_** know where **_**he**_** is?"**

"**No."**

"**Then how exactly do you expect the two of you to ever find each other? Everyone lost contact with him the moment he left here, so it's not like I could pass any messages along, even if you decide to take pity on him now."**

"**Messages? Not necessary. He doesn't know where I am, but he knows where to start looking for me. Wherever he goes, there'll be people who **_**do**_** know where I am."**

"**How can you be so sure he'll come across such a person? I think you're leaving too much up to chance."**

"**Then I think you're not thinking at all."**

* * *

Sunlight shot through the leaves like laser guns. The page in front of Taro was blotchy, gray shadows cast upon it interrupted by spots of bright yellow. He shifted uncomfortably to one side, trying to find a bigger patch of shade.

The expansive park he had chosen to do his reading in was almost empty at that time of day. There were a few early rises loitering around doing their morning exercises, but none of them came close enough to the tall oak tree he sat under to bother him, which suited Taro well. As it was, a strangely impatient frown creased his brow, distorting the normal alignment of his pale, rounded features. Short brown hair in the exact shade of milk chocolate brushed his face lazily, which he swiped away from his narrowed brown eyes with unnecessary vigor.

_Nothing here_. With ill-concealed annoyance he closed the thick volume resting on his crossed legs, abandoning it for another similar book. Scanning this new one with dwindling intensity, he paused only to scribble down a few words on the piece of paper beside him, which was already half-filled with his neat handwriting. Then, discarding this book as well, he methodically reached for the next, unaware that he was slowly but surely forming a solid wall around himself with haphazardly stacked telephone directories.

So far, his list of potential phone numbers had grown to a point where Taro began to wonder whether he had the nerve to actually call them all. A thousand disappointments coupled with a thousand apologies—"Sorry, I must have the wrong number." Never in his life had he done—or seen anyone else do—such an extensive, tedious and completely inane search for another person using a method only slightly better than banging on all the doors in France and asking, "Excuse me, does someone named Suzuki Mikomi live here?"

His optimism diminished with the examination of each new directory, and the addition of new numbers. _Why_ were there so many Japanese citizens going by the name 'Suzuki' in a single European country? As if the odds weren't stacked against him already, as it was. He didn't know which region she lived in; he didn't know her father's or mother's given name; in fact he didn't know whether she or her family even _had_ a fixed phone line, and when he thought about it, she most likely didn't.

And here he was, going through a nation's worth of telephone books on the offhand chance that he might stumble upon her number.

It made no sense, the back of his mind rebelled. He should be figuring out a training strategy to eradicate the shortcomings he didn't know he had, not sitting around looking for someone he might or might not find and who might or might not slam the door in his face if he found her.

He didn't need her, his pride said; and she didn't need him, his mind said. His intuition told him that she didn't ever want to see him again.

Why waste time over a person who despised him?

With a frustrated sigh, Taro reached for the next book, always the next one, turning the pages with what—to the casual observer who didn't know any better, of course—looked suspiciously like desperation.

If he had to go through an avalanche of these, he _would_. If he had to dial up a sea of households with Suzuki's in them, he _would_. If he thought about it at this moment, discouraged and resentful, he might not understand why he was so determined to depend upon her. But nonetheless he still remembered Suzuki Mikomi from three years ago, and he suspected his deductions on her still held true, whether he still understood the reasoning behind them or not.

For now, while he grappled with the fact that strong feelings (long since diminished) had once existed for this girl whose instinctive dislike he had incurred, he lived with the grim knowledge that even if he were wrong about everything else, Mikomi's certain dislike for him would still enable her to tell him what he needed to know.

* * *

It was only until evening that Matsuyama got the chance to make his phone call. Staggering though the main entrance to his dormitory building, he winced involuntarily as he almost fell to the floor, landing heavily on one knee. He was at the end of his strength, with barely able to keep upright and walk at the same time.

_We need Taro and the others back_. It repulsed him to have to admit his own inadequacy, but Matsuyama could not disregard the grave reality that none of the players who were going through Coach Gamo's new training program would be able to compete in top form afterwards, himself included. Sometimes he was plagued with the lurking feeling that none of them, besides Tsubasa, would be able to put up _any_ kind of resistance against _any_ opposing national team. It was a quite galling thought.

Therefore the only thing he could do to guarantee that the Team survived even the first round of preliminaries was make sure his seven banished teammates made it back into the Team, regardless of what psychopathic re-entrance exam Gamo cooked up for them. Reaching out to the public telephone booth with the last of his depleted energy, he punched in the numbers and closed his eyes, leaning against the wall as the ring tone sounded.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Matsuyama Hikari."

"Matsuyama-kun. What can I do for you?"

"Has Misaki turned up yet?"

The responding voice sounded half annoyed. "No. I haven't seen him. What's going on? Didn't you say he's sure to come?"

Matsuyama stiffened, fighting to stay alert despite his fatigue. Taro hadn't gone to her yet? "You haven't heard from him at all?"

"_No_."

"That's funny," he muttered to himself. "You know, I really expected him to call you up first thing. He's not that close to too many other people outside the Team. I just wonder…" Propping himself up by the telephone box, he pondered his friend's irregular course of action. _Is he trying to pull this off himself? But that's stupid… Besides, he'd never want to do it alone_. "Does he know where you live? Didn't you give him your new address or phone number?"

"No," was the snappish reply.

"Why the hell not?"

"He never asked for either," the girl answered, disgruntled. "What, do you expect me to always throw myself at him and remind him about these things? If he wants to contact me so badly, he'll find a way. If he can't, then he's not trying hard enough and I couldn't care less whether I see him or not."

Groaning, Matsuyama rolled his eyes in disgust. "You're unbelievable, you know that? In case you've forgotten, this isn't only about whatever problems the two of you have with each other. The performance of the Team is on the line here, remember? We _need_ him back as an effective player."

"Then tell that to _him_, not me."

This was impossible. Why, out of all the people Taro had ever met (which amounted to a fair many, due to his extensive traveling), had he chosen to befriend _this_ girl, of all people? Matsuyama couldn't imagine why anyone would want to do anything, much less play soccer, with somebody as difficult as she was_. _Yet he distinctly remembered hearing that Taro had spent so much time in his late high school years with her that people suspected they were dating_. He must have been out of his mind_.

Exhausted and irked, Matsuyama gave her up as a bad job. Using his spare time to rest up would be more productive. Maybe if he kept completely still for the rest of the night, he might actually be able to get up the next morning and make it down to the soccer pitch for the next session of grueling practice without having to crawl. "All right, if I hear from Misaki, I'll try and talk to him. But damn it, quit being petty and _don't_ make life too difficult for him, okay?" He cut the line.

* * *

The late morning sun was already heating up the cobblestone paths when Pierre stepped onto them, following their winding way past majestic, towering trees, lush patches of light green grass and stone fountains spouting sparking clear water which cascaded down in glittering waves.

This had to be the most beautiful park in France, he often thought. Never had he failed to appreciate its beauty, even on those restless walks he occasionally took there when life presented him with its daunting hurdles. In fact, the surroundings were the main attraction that invited him to come, because where better to recover his peace of mind than in a place where everything complimented everything else in such elegant harmony?

It was not troubles that brought him to the park that day, though. With nothing distressing on his mind, he was free to admire the dominating blueness of the dome-like sky and the pale yellow sunlight, which streaked across his vision. A lilting breeze swept silkily on his skin, and a small smile graced his lips as he enjoyed it. Embracing nature was always worthwhile, he reflected. Even with the Junior World Cup looming ahead, there was no excuse for not stopping to relish this wonderful day.

That was why, when he happened upon the sight of a figure sitting bent over under a tree with heaps of brusquely aligned books littering the grass around it, he felt slightly scandalized. What was the point, he silently demanded, of going to a charming park if all you did there was bury your nose in something else like some boring office worker?

As he got closer, he made out the distinguishing features of an Asian person. _That's foreigners for you_, he sniffed vindictively. _No appreciation for beauty at all_. With distaste he eyed the growing profile of the outlander as he passed.

Gradually, though, the tightening of his lips lessened, as annoyance was lost amid startling recognition. He thought knew this face, this foreigner. But…

The last he had heard of his soccer rival Misaki Taro was that he had left France and returned to Japan some two years ago. Even if the rumors were false, shouldn't he be back in his home country anyway, what with the preliminaries of the Junior Cup coming up so soon?

Curious, Pierre edged closer to the sprawling oak spread out like a huge green umbrella with lots of holes. "Misaki?" he called out uncertainly, wondering if he had made a mistake. "Misaki Taro?"

"Pierre?" came the faint reply. Bringing up a smile, Pierre quickened his pace and strode towards the other. The two were ten feet apart when Misaki suddenly glanced up. Pierre almost recoiled in shock.

Misaki looked, in short, terrible. Capillaries lined his eyes red, making them stand out jarringly from his fair skin, which was significantly whiter than usual. His entire body posture screamed tiredness and lack of sleep; his movements were slow, feeble. _The boy's a mess_, Pierre thought. He was greeted by a weary smile. "Ohayo, Pierre."

"Good morning," he returned, even though he suspected there was nothing 'good' about Misaki's morning. Awkwardly he stood beside the former, debating on what to say next. 'How are you doing?' was obviously the wrong question to ask. Looking around, he once again noticed the stacks of books scattered about and picked one up. "A _telephone directory_?" He did a double take at the dozen or so volumes lying around.

"I need to find someone's number," Misaki said by way of explanation.

"I…see." Still a bit nonplussed—_he must _really_ want that number_—Pierre bent down and read over the other's shoulder the sheet of paper he was scribbling on. There were no names that he could see, at first, only line after line of figures written in neat columns. Apparently 'someone' referred to more than one person. Now very mystified, he readjusted his line of sight to follow Misaki's finger as it traveled down a page of the telephone book open on his lap, stopping at a single name.

"Suzuki?" Immediately Pierre's train of thought jumped to another person he hadn't heard from for a while until very, very recently. _It has to be a coincidence_. "Are you looking for Mikomi?"

The pen rolled away from between Misaki's fingers. "I forgot you knew her."

"My father knew her parents," Pierre shrugged. "We used to play a little soccer when she was around, though it didn't happen too often—her family had to handle too many big clients all over France to really stay put anywhere."

"Have you been in contact with her all this time?" Misaki prompted him anxiously.

"Not on a regular basis. It's pretty hard, since she has no permanent address. But I know you'll not find her in there." Pierre nodded at the telephone books.

It was almost comical the way Misaki deflated then, as though a pin had punctured his torso, letting out what little remained of his vigor. The only thing that restrained Pierre's laughter was the expression of total defeat that settled upon the other, like life was already eating away at him, at the prime of his youth.

"Can't I…couldn't you…isn't there _some_ way to find out where she's gone?" Misaki asked at last, almost pleading. "Your father has contacts all over France. Aren't _any_ of them negotiating business with the Suzuki's?"

Pierre eyed his friend's haggard face with some alarm. "If I knew of any such deal being made, I'd tell you. But I don't, and there probably isn't. Anyway, even if I had all those contacts scour the country—and I have no authority to do that—they wouldn't find her."

"Why?"

"Because she's not in France."

* * *

"Thanks for letting me stay here tonight."

Smiling warmly, Sanae let one of her oldest friends into the Nakazawa household. "No problem." She glanced at her guest, looking her up and down, and raised an eyebrow. "Got out of the house in a hurry, did you?"

Mikomi grimaced. "The usual. I walked in, couldn't stand it, walked out again before I was halfway down the hall. Didn't have time to pack any clothes or anything, sorry."

Sanae reassured the other that it was quite all right. "What happened? Your parents having trouble again?" she asked sympathetically.

"Something like that." Mikomi brushed the matter off as though she found family issues distasteful. "They must have been yelling for a reason. Well, _maybe_ they were yelling for a reason; I wouldn't know, I didn't stay long enough to find out." She started towards the living room, but paused. "You sure your mom won't mind me? I could always go to Sato's—"

"No, no, just stay here," Sanae insisted with some alarm. "Kamikage-kun's a nice guy, but his father…" She pursed her lips in disapproval. "I don't think it's quite safe for you with him there. He still drinks?"

"So Sato says. But really, it's all safe enough, since I'd be in his room and his lock still works."

Still unconvinced, Sanae studied the Suzuki heir, noting her thick ebony hair disciplined by a ponytail, piercing black-pearl eyes, small nose, haughty cheekbones and slim figure. Mikomi, small as she was, still managed to look vaguely intimidating with her imperious hawk-like gaze. Her features were merely striking and sharp, though, not unattractive. "Bedroom locks usually aren't that well made. Maybe one of these days his will break, too."

But her silent warning was dismissed with a laugh. "You forget that I'll also have Sato with me. He's not completely helpless, you know. He and Wakashimazu got pretty tight while I was in France. I bet they taught each other a few things."

A chiding retort ready, Sanae opened her mouth but cut herself off abruptly as something connected in her mind. "France. You _were_ in France, but you're not now. You've been in Japan for a year."

"I think I figured out I'm not in France myself, thanks."

"But Misaki-kun hasn't!" Sanae said impatiently. "I saw him the other day. He said something about wanting to see you, but then he was in a hurry to catch a plane to France. He thinks you're still there. Mikomi, didn't you tell him when you moved back?"

The reply came with mild irritation. "I didn't see the need to at that time."

Sanae threw her hands up, exasperated. "Mikomi, how _could_ you? He would have liked to get back in touch, and you know it."

"I do?"

Walking right up to her friend, Sanae grabbed her by the shoulders. "You're not dumb, so don't pretend to be. How could you have been so inconsiderate? Now thanks to you poor Misaki-kun's running around the wrong country when he needs you for something important."

"Why are you assuming that it's something important?"

"Because he's crossing continents to find you!"

Mikomi sighed irritably. "It's nothing, Sanae. Really. He just wants someone to play ball with him; that's all. Anyone could do it, doesn't have to be me."

It was as though a blasting gust of wind had picked up in the house when the Nakazawas' docile daughter narrowed her eyes and exclaimed with such forceful reproach that even her imperturbable friend tried to take a step back, "You _knew_ he's looking for you." She was met by stunned apprehension, which only served to agitate her further. "_Why didn't you say anything to him?_ Do you know how much time and money he's wasted already? Would it have hurt to let him know where you are?"

Her brand of shock therapy was to no avail, however, as Mikomi had recovered from the initial surprise by then and had no appearance of backing down. "Are you saying I should've known he'd just go rushing off to Europe like an idiot? If he'd been thinking at all he'd have asked around a little first—but he didn't even ask _you_, the person most likely to know where I am. And anyway, it wouldn't have been easy to find him; don't you know by now and he tends not to stay in one place for too long?"

"You could have at least tried! It would've been the decent thing to do. If you think finding someone in _Japan_ is hard, what about _France_? How long will it be before he finally figures out you're not there?" Sanae glared furiously as the seconds dragged on. _Come on, you have to be a _little_ sorry; you're not a sociopath_.

Mikomi didn't speak at once, tilting her head and regarding the fuming girl in front of her steadily. For a brief moment her gaze seemed unfocused, as if she were trying to remember something. But the moment passed, and her only response was an indifferent, "That's his problem."

Sanae smacked herself on the forehead in frustration.


End file.
